In Your Arms Tonight
by Mousme
Summary: Set directly after Frontierland. Dean can't remember the time he last saw Sam laugh or even smile. When he tries to remedy that, things go even further than he anticipated, not that anyone is complaining.


Title: **In Your Arms Tonight**  
Summary: Set directly after _Frontierland_. Dean can't remember the time he last saw Sam laugh or even smile. When he tries to remedy that, things go even further than he anticipated, not that anyone is complaining. Written for **salt_burn_porn**, for a prompt by **mollyamory** that went: _I'm only laughing near you._

Characters: Dean/Cas/Sam

Rating: NC-17

Wordcount: ~5,500

Disclaimer: Nothing recognizable belongs to me, more's the pity.

Warnings: Spoilers up to 6.18. Recreational drug use. All the porn! Also angst and schmoop. It's a triple-threat. ;)

Neurotic Author's Note #1: Uh, so this is my attempt at a threesome. No idea if it works.

Neurotic Author's Note #2: Also, much like the last time I participated in **salt_burn_porn**, Dean refused to shut up for the first 2,000 words, so while this is technically PWP, please be patient until you get to the actual porn. Sorry.

Neurotic Author's Note #3: I haven't had time even to re-read this. I cannot guarantee that it makes sense. Further apologies, but this is what you get when **ratherastory** writes porn to a deadline.

Neurotic Author's Note #4: Furthermore, the angst and the schmoop kind of tried to take over, repeatedly. You've been warned. ;)

* * *

The thing is, Sam doesn't laugh anymore. Hell, Dean doesn't remember the last time he's seen his brother smile, let alone actually laugh. Normally, this isn't something Dean would be thinking about at all. It's not like he spends his time obsessively cataloguing every one of his little brother's numerous and, let's face it, burdensome emotions. It's not like their lives have been a rollercoaster of fun of late, after all, and Dean himself isn't exactly a barrel of laughs himself. But now that he is thinking about it —possibly aided by the three or four tumbler's of Bobby's third-best whisky that Bobby generously let him take with them when they left— it's kind of hitting a little close to home. It's Sam's fault, really. Sam and his soulful looks and his all-around... _Sam_ness, damn him, especially after that whole phoenix thing. Dean catches him stealing glances at him the whole time after they get back, and try as he might, he just can't ignore it.

"What?" he asks finally. "I'm fine, we got the phoenix ash, Bobby's fine, what? What?" Because Sam has this weird look on his face, all doe-eyed and trying not to show it.

Sam shrugs. "Nothing. I just... it was nice to see you have fun for a while."

Dean rolled his eyes. "What fun? It was filthy and they made fun of my clothes, I had to jump through another window —and let me tell you, if I never have to do that again it'll be too soon. Then I got shot at, a lot, Bobby got himself soul-fisted and the last time I checked Cas looked like he was hit by the heavenly equivalent of a Mac truck. So my thoughts? It sucked. Hard. The only redeeming feature of the whole shit-pile is that we got the phoenix ash after all."

Sam shrugs again and turns his face away to stare out the window, and Dean sighs, because he knows that particular slump that Sam gets when he's gotten his feelings hurt. "Yeah, okay."

"Oh, come on. What?"

"You're telling me I imagined you enjoying some of that?" Sam doesn't look away from the window.

So, okay, yes. Yes, Dean did enjoy it, even if it wasn't anything like the movies. There were horses, and he totally got to have a showdown at high noon, which is totally going at the top of his list of Coolest Things To Happen On A Hunt Ever. He grins, tapping his hands on the steering wheel at the memory —the clock, the smell of mud and horse shit pungent in the air that still felt cleaner than anything he's breathed in this century— and thinks, yeah, it really wasn't so bad, overall.

"It was pretty cool," he concedes, and Sam's shoulders lose a little of their dejected slump, which is good, because he's pretty sure Sam didn't enjoy a single minute of their little Western adventure. Between the embroidered shirt —which Dean totally picked on purpose because it's about time Sam figured out he's a giant girl— and being saddle sore from riding all night, Sam didn't exactly have a picnic during their escapade either.

And that's how come, seventy miles later, Dean is still thinking about how Sam doesn't laugh anymore. It's kind of screwed up, really, something Dean has never really understood about Sam except maybe intellectually. Because yeah, their lives suck out loud, but there's always good things to get excited about. Like Westerns and Star Trek and sex. Sex is almost always a good thing. There are exceptions to the rule, of course, but generally speaking, it's pretty awesome. That might be part of the problem, right there, Dean realizes, like it's a fucking epiphany. Because what with the whole not having a soul thing, and then the Wall and all the fallout from that, they haven't really... yeah, there's no good word for what they had before, but it was good, as far as Dean is concerned, and he wants it back. So he lets Sam fall asleep in the passenger seat —just like old times— and starts coming up with a plan.

The thing is, it's not like before. Before Hell, it was just him and Sam, and then it all kind of got fucked up and twisted around and they didn't figure it out again until it was almost too late. It wasn't just them anymore; there was Cas, flitting in and out like a really awkward chaperone, until the angel had made it clear he didn't give a damn what they did in their more private moments. But they did figure it out, and it was just starting to get good again, to feel _right_, when it all went to Hell again, right along with Sam. Literally.

So Dean finds them a nicer motel than usual. One with little private cabins that are kind of secluded, which is perfect for what he has in mind. He tosses his duffel at Sam and orders him to unpack their stuff for him, just to watch Sam roll his eyes and bitch that he's not Dean's maid, that Dean can unpack his own damned duffel bag. Dean grins, turns on his heel, and goes back to the front desk of the motel. The desk clerk is about half his age, but he's got the right dead-end-job loser look, and five minutes later Dean has scored what smells like some pretty good quality weed for a motel in a podunk town in the middle of nowhere.

Sam's in the shower by the time he gets back, which is just fine by Dean. He makes a point of hiding all of his brother's clothes except for his boxers and an undershirt, strips off most of his own clothes, and settles on the single king-sized bed that came with the room, crossing his ankles and using his trusty Zippo to light one of the joints from the baggie he just dropped on the night stand. The pot is a little stronger than he anticipated, pungent in his nostrils even as he tries to hold his breath long enough for Sam to get out of the shower, but the little bitch apparently is determined to use up all the hot water before Dean can even get in there. So he switches to trying to blow a smoke ring instead, and kind of chokes a little bit on the smoke, which is why he's coughing, eyes watering, when Sam does emerge, his hair still dripping on his shoulders. Dean grins through the coughing fit.

"Hey Sammy, took you long enough."

Sam stares at him in disbelief. "I take a ten-minute shower and you find the time to get baked?"

Dean gets himself under control, leans back on the pillows, and holds up the joint. "Have a seat. We're taking the night off." He takes another drag, deliberately closes his eyes, enjoying the way everything's already starting to soften around the edges, and ignoring the bitch face he knows Sam is pulling right now.

"Dean, where are my clothes?"

"Don't need 'em. Sit."

There's a sigh, a quiet rustling for a few minutes as Sam pulls on the boxers Dean generously left for him, and the bed dips a little. When Dean opens his eyes again Sam is seated opposite him, his foot between Dean's legs, one hand extended in an obvious gesture of 'gimme.' Obligingly he hands over the joint, watches as his little brother's long fingers grasp the paper with the same care as if he were holding a butterfly and trying not to crease its wings. Sam makes the most awesome faces when he's toking, Dean thinks, settling a little more comfortably against the pillows. He hasn't offered one to Sam, who's got to be at least a little uncomfortable against the foot of the bed, all cold metal and no give, but Sam doesn't say anything, just lets his head drop back against the bars, exhaling slowly when he can't hold his breath anymore.

When Sam looks back at Dean, he's grinning, a little uncertainly, but definitely grinning. He hands back the joint, and Dean feels a surge of satisfaction. What's great about Sam, is that Dean knows almost everything there is to know about him. He knows when Sam is hurting, knows when he's lying, knows when he's angry or overwhelmed or scared out of his mind. He also knows that Sam is a sad, maudlin drunk, and gets really giddy when he's high. So getting Sam to laugh? As easy as getting him stoned.

"Pretty good, huh Sammy? Good thing you're a lightweight. Guy your size, " he takes back the joint, tries not to smirk when Sam lets out a soft chuckle. Mission almost accomplished. "Been a while since we did this. Remember?"

Sam nods. "Last year. When we got back from 1978. I don't even remember how you managed to score weed from the past, man."

It wasn't last year, it was the year before that, but it's a whole year that Sam doesn't need to remember, so Dean doesn't mention it. "You were so damned worried I'd cause some sort of quantum paradox just from a couple of ounces of dead plant," Dean laughs, and Sam kicks him uncoordinately in the shin and snatches back the joint before Dean can even use it.

"Shut up. You might have totally fucked up the timeline and we won't know until it's too late."

"You mean I might have inadvertently caused the end of the world?"

"Not fucking funny." But Sam is giggling already, even after only two hits, and Dean's already watching the uneven tensing of his stomach muscles as he laughs. He's at his most beautiful like this, Dean's baby brother, relaxed and laid back, hair swept back messily, all long, tanned limbs and well-defined muscles. It's the best feeling ever to just watch him laugh for once, even if it's just the result of really good drugs. "Story of our fucking lives, is what that is. Cas was here the last time, too, all fucked up from trying to send us back in time. Ever notice how that always happens? We need to stop doing that to him."

Dean's inclined to agree. Sam's leg is resting against his now, warm and firm where he didn't bother to pull it away after kicking Dean. "I thought it would be okay, now he's all juiced up again, but I guess not."

"You check on him lately?"

"No, why?"

Sam grins, staring at him through half-lidded eyes. "Come on, he's your angel. You're telling me nothing happened in all those months I was —whatever?"

He shakes his head. "He hasn't been around much. Busy with his own shit in Heaven, I guess."

"He was pretty wrecked last time..." Sam says, dropping one hand to rest on Dean's ankle, tracing circles just above the instep of his foot, and Dean shivers. "I miss having him around, the way we did last year. Is that weird? I mean, I got back, and there was this awkward thing where he tried to hug me—"

"He hugged you?"

Sam snorts, eyes dancing with merriment. "He tried, and I sort of didn't let him. It was shitty of me, too, and I felt bad after, but it was so awkward, and he was kind of all hands and the next thing I knew he was telling me I walked around with no soul for a year, and we kind of lost the moment."

"That sucks."

"Tell me about it. But, you know, what's new?" Sam's still doing that thing with his hand, and it might be a sign of just how long it's been, or maybe just how desperate Dean has gotten, that his dick is already starting to take an interest in it, each careful brush of Sam's fingernails against the delicate skin making it twitch ever so slightly. If Sam has noticed, he hasn't given any indication of it. "He hasn't answered when I prayed the last couple of days, but I can't tell if he's offended or busy or if he only answers when you do it."

"I can always try," Dean offers, and when Sam gives him a sort of half-nod, he goes ahead with it in spite of his misgivings. He knows how Sam feels about Cas —better than he knows how he feels about Cas himself, anyway, because it's all kind of a tangle at the best of times— and God knows it's always better when it's the three of them together. "Uh, Cas? You there? I mean, wherever you are when you're not here. Look, if you're not busy, we could use you here. I don't mean _use_-use, just... get down here if you can."

Even half-stoned, Dean still startles a bit at the sudden gust of wind that always announces Cas' presence. He twists a little on the bed, finds Cas standing way too close —as usual— trench coat hanging awkwardly on his shoulders, head tilted to the side, and warmth floods through him.

"Hey, Cas," he manages, and it's lame and stupid and thank God Cas can't actually tell the difference between good and bad social skills.

"Did you need something?" Cas asks, and out of the corner of his eye Dean sees Sam's mouth twist a little in that way that means he's feeling guilty. It kind of makes Dean's stomach clench a little too, because maybe that Rachel chick was right, and they've only been calling Cas when they want something lately, which is just a really shitty way of treating their only friend outside of Bobby.

"No, Cas, not like that," Sam gets there first. "We were just... we wanted to know if you were okay, after the last time we saw you."

"I am fine."

Cas doesn't move, looking for all the world like he's trying to imitate a board, so Dean tugs a little on his trench coat. "Did we interrupt a battle or something important?"

"Not this time."

Dean grins. "Good. Take a load off, Cas. There's still room on the bed." The grin fades a little when Cas hesitates, like he isn't sure of his welcome anymore, and fuck if that doesn't break his heart a little. "Come on, I promise I won't bite unless you specifically ask me to," he leers.

Sam makes an undignified sound somewhere between a snort and a groan, and Cas —Cas actually relaxes a little and shucks the trench coat, tossing it over the back of a chair before getting on the bed on his hands and knees. He accidentally traps his tie under the palm of one hand and nearly faceplants onto the faded bedspread right into the tangle of Sam and Dean's legs, but Sam catches him in a surprising display of coordination and props him back up, untying the knot that always seems to be askew anyway and disposing of the tie over the foot of the bed.

"You should lose the shoes and socks too, Cas," he says gently, and apparently that was all the invitation Cas needed, because within seconds he's barefoot and leaning a little against Sam's chest. "Better?" Sam murmurs into his ear, suddenly sultry, and Cas nods, swallowing a little. Such a tiny, human thing to do, it reminds Dean of before, when they all learned how to slot together so that they fit.

The joint is already gone, mostly smoked and partially just burned down while they waited, but Dean made sure they wouldn't run out. He holds up a new one just before lighting it. "You remember the last time, Cas? Me and Sam were just taking a trip down memory lane."

Cas nods again. "We had returned from your past. You and Sam put me to bed, watched over me while I recovered from..." he stops, watching the joint in Dean's fingers, and Dean finds himself staring back. Every time he manages to forget just how very blue Cas' eyes are, how it always feels like he's staring right past Dean's barriers and into his soul. He remembers seeing Cas' pupils blown wide after that, under the effects of the weed and Dean's touch, the intoxicating knowledge that _he_ was the one doing it to the angel. "It was... I liked it."

Dean shifts on the bed, sliding closer to Cas. "So now that you're all mojo'd up again, can you even still get high?" he asks, moving so that he can hook one leg over Cas' knees. "Or is it like liquor? No more fun for you now that you're the Sheriff of Heaven?"

Cas' breathing quickens a little. "I don't know, I haven't tried."

Dean deliberately shoves himself into Cas' personal space, close enough that he can feel the heat from just under Cas' shirt. Sam hasn't moved from where he's sitting, which means Dean is practically straddling one of his legs in his attempt to get to Cas. Dean leans in over Cas' shoulder, hands the joint to his brother. He's more than half-hard by now, his dick tenting the fabric of his boxers, and by the looks of it, Sam isn't far behind.

"Why don't we try it and find out?" he murmurs into Cas' ear, and is rewarded with a full-body shudder. "C'mon, Sammy. Show him."

Cas doesn't resist when Sam cups his chin, tilting his face toward him. Dean rescues the joint before it can fall, licks his lips as Sam presses his mouth to Cas', exhales slowly, eyes slipping shut. Cas lets out a small moan, hips bucking a little, and Dean can see his throat working minutely as he inhales everything Sam is giving him, taking it easily. Even when he was falling, when he was as close to human as he was ever going to get, there seemed to be no bounds to how much Cas could take, from either of them, from both at once. Sam is licking at Cas' lips now, light and teasing, hands coming around and smoothing over Cas' chest, working the buttons on his shirt off one by one. When they're all undone, Dean is the one who pulls the shirt over his shoulders and drops it one the floor.

"This okay, Cas?" Sam asks quietly, working his way along the angel's neck and jaw with lips and teeth and tongue, and even if Cas hadn't moaned and nodded jerkily, head thrown back against Sam's shoulder to expose the pale line of his throat, Dean would know from the way his hips jerk under him.

"I thought... I wasn't sure..." Cas starts, but Dean catches the words in a kiss before he can finish the sentence.

"You thought wrong," he says against Cas' lips, tasting the faint remnants of pot there and that ineffable trace that's all Sam. He unzips Cas' fly, pops the button on his pants, slides his belt free and lets Sam take care of getting rid of the pants entirely. "All you had to do was ask, Cas. What do you want?"

Cas makes a high, desperate noise at the back of his throat as Dean and Sam each use a hand to slide his underwear down and off, letting his cock spring free, already flushed, the first drop of pre-come pearling at the tip. "I want to watch you," he growls, surprising Dean just a little, but Sam seems to get the idea, and the smile he flashes Dean over Cas' shoulder sends a wave of heat through Dean's whole body.

Sam bites at Cas' shoulder, licks over the spot, lifts his head just far enough to murmur in Cas' ear. "It's Dean you want to watch, right? You want to see his expression when I open him up, all laid out and desperate, is that it?"

Dean isn't sure he can breathe. He always manages to forget just what a filthy mouth Sam has on him once he gets going, and it's all the hotter because he's usually kind of diffident before things get underway, a little shy and uncertain. The next thing he knows Sam has somehow moved out from under them both, and in one fluid motion has pushed Dean onto his back, legs splayed a little ridiculously, and Dean suddenly has really good view of the ceiling while his boxers practically melt away without his quite working out how Sam made it happen. Sam's hand wraps around his dick for a moment in a slow, hot drag, and Dean bucks, instinctively seeking out more friction, sucking in air with a gasp, back arching in spite of himself as Sam moves up to catch his mouth in a kiss.

"You should see yourself," Sam says, trailing his fingers in Dean's pubic hair. "So fucking beautiful like this. No wonder Cas likes to watch you, I could do this forever, just make you come apart on my fingers. You want that?"

Dean isn't entirely sure when he stopped being in charge of this whole situation, but his dick is very much in agreement with Sam, who smiles and starts working his way slowly down Dean's stomach, alternating kisses and bites, one finger already working at the tight ring of muscle in Dean's ass, dry and just the right side of painful. Dean forces himself to breathe, to relax just enough to let Sam breach him, shudders when Sam pulls back.

"That's it," Sam encourages him, and where the hell Sam managed to get his hands on lube is beyond Dean's understanding right now, but it's cold and slick and —_Christ_. "That's it," Sam says again, "relax, I got you. We've got you, don't we, Cas?" And then Cas is there, fuck watching, his tongue insistent against Dean's, and it's deceptively simple to just open up and let him in, pressed halfway up against him, skin on skin, so hot it feels like one of them might actually be on fire. "That's right, Cas, keep his mind off it, keep him busy. Fucking gorgeous, Dean, taking it so well."

Sam's still talking, adding a second finger, a third, moving so slowly now that Dean thinks he might lose his mind by the time he's done. He's being held still by what feels like more pairs of hands than there should logically be, lighting up every single one of his nerve endings, roaming over his hips, inside his thighs, up over his stomach and chest, avoiding his aching cock until he's writhing, heels scrabbling uselessly for purchase on the scratchy bedspread, his fingers digging into Cas' shoulders so hard that if Cas were human he'd have to worry about leaving bruises.

Sam twists his fingers and Dean almost comes off the bed, only to be pinned in place again by Cas' hands. "God, Sam... Cas, _please_!"

"You want him, Cas?" Sam shifts so that he's straddling Dean's hips, hands coming up to cover Dean's, which are still anchored to Cas' shoulders. He licks his way over Dean's fingers, sucking each one into his mouth for a moment. "He's ready for you, I opened him up like a birthday present. You like him like that? All strung out and desperate for your cock? Look at him, all wet and writhing —bet he'll come just on your cock, so fucking desperate. Unless you want to fuck that pretty mouth of his?"

It should be insulting, degrading, even, except that it's no because it's Sam, and it's Cas, and all Dean can hear is the desire in Cas' answering groan, the heat and the love under Sam's words. He jerks and moans, but Cas is already wriggling backward, his own dick pulsing pre-come onto his stomach, and Sam is encouraging him, pulls Cas up and into his lap. That gives Dean just enough room to pull himself together a little, to push up on his elbows in time to see Cas impaling himself on Sam's cock in one smooth slide, without needing so much as a moment of prep, a single moment to adjust. Just the sight of it, the way Cas' eyes slam shut for a moment, the way Sam catches his lower lip in his teeth, is almost enough to tip Dean right over the edge. Cas senses it —in the same, uncanny way he can sense everything else about Dean, moves his hand to squeeze the base of Dean's dick.

"Not yet," he growls, and Dean feels his dick strain in Cas' grasp.

Cas is panting, face flushed, eyes so bright it's almost hard to look directly at him, and when he reaches out it seems like the simplest thing in the world to reach back, to let the angel pull him up as though he weighs nothing and plunge his tongue back into Dean's mouth. Dean braces himself against Sam's shoulder with one hand, cups the back of Cas' neck with the other, trying to pull him even closer, whimpers when he feels the head of Cas' cock nudging at his ass. He sucks in a gasp as he lowers himself gradually, the burn all but intolerable and so fucking good.

"Fuck, Cas."

For a second he almost thinks the words are his, until he realizes that it's Sam talking, thighs shaking with the strain of holding himself still, of holding them both up, his hands on Cas' arms. It's Sam who sets the pace a moment later, agonizingly slow, hands moving to grasp Dean's hips, holding them all together as he moves, pushing Cas to push into Dean. It's Sam setting the pace, and it's Cas keeping up, Cas' hands fucking everywhere, Cas leaning in to lick and bite at Dean as though he's starved for it and Dean's the only thing between him and all of Heaven. There's sweat pooling at the base of Dean's spine, heat coiling in the pit of his stomach, his mind a whirl of confused, aimless thoughts all coming back to _Cas_ and _Sam_ and _Sam_ and _Cas_. He lets his hands drop to rest lightly over Sam's wrists, abandoning himself to the too-full sensation of Cas moving inside him, letting himself just be held where he is, head tilted back as Cas sucks a bruise into the base of his throat.

Sam comes first, too far gone to even talk anymore, the only indication he gives a choked-off sound, muffled in the flesh of Cas' shoulder, his grip tightening over Dean's hips. The movement makes Cas jerk between them, and Dean reaches out in order to grab Sam's shoulders, to hold on to them as he urges Cas to ride Sam through his climax, so close himself he wants to scream. Cas follows Sam over the edge a few moments later, leans in to capture Dean's mouth in one last, searing kiss, and that's it. The orgasm has been building for so long that it practically takes Dean by surprise, like a tidal wave you watch coming at you, unable to do anything and stand there right up until the moment it knocks you off your feet and sweeps you away. Dean throws back his head with a yell that sounds distant and muffled to his ears, his whole body lit up like a damned Christmas tree, shuddering until he's sure that the next gust of air will make him fly apart into a million pieces.

The next time he opens his eyes he's lying down on the bed again, staring into Sam's eyes over the top of Cas' head. Sam grins, wide and easy, and he finds himself grinning back. Cas is curled into his chest, the ends of his hair tickling Dean's chin. He's not asleep —angels don't need to sleep, he told Dean once, sternly, back when he was almost-but-not-quite-human— but his breathing is even, his muscles lax, his whole demeanour contented. He's warm against Dean, their legs tangled together, entwined with Sam's so that Dean isn't at all sure where any one of them ends and the others begin. It feels right, the way nothing has in a very long time. The past couple of years, it's felt as though there was always one thing or another missing: if it wasn't Sam then it was Cas, and if it wasn't Cas it was Sam, sometimes both of them at once, and then there were the times they were both right there and still missing anyway. The thought makes his heart clench, and he forces the memory away, right to the back of his mind. Right now, he's got everything he's wanted in a very long time, right here, and he's not going to question it.

Sam is rubbing circles lightly against Cas' spine with his thumb, expression fond, but he never takes his eyes off Dean. "What?" he asks, his grin still firmly in place, and Dean shakes his head.

"Nothing."

"Nothing, my ass. I haven't seen you look like that in... well, a really long time. So spill."

Dean snorts. "Don't be a girl, Francis."

"Come on, spill."

Dean feels his cheeks flush. "I just... it's good to have you back, is all." He wonders if he just jinxed it.

If he thought it was impossible for Sam's grin to get wider, he's proven wrong. Sam throws back his head and laughs, then reaches over and brushes his fingers against Dean's cheek, which would totally make him a girl, except that it feels nice, and that would make Dean a girl, so he's going to give them both a pass on it.

"I love how easy it is to make you happy," Sam says, and Dean can't even bring himself to scowl at his words.

Sam's already shifting closer, pressing all three of them together, and Cas lets out a contented sigh. He never talks much after sex, Dean remembers, and that's just fine. Sam looks drowsy but happy, and Dean takes a moment to pull the bedclothes over them all, staving off the chill that's just starting to set in. He should get up, he thinks, get them cleaned up, but he feels too good to move just yet. He'll go in a minute, he tells himself, turning over and burrowing further under the covers. No one's complained yet about being sticky, so he's taking that as tacit agreement for him to stay exactly where he is.

If Cas is still there in the morning, he'll take both him and Sam out for pancakes, Dean tells himself drowsily. Or waffles, so that they can both be OCD about it and fill each of the individual little squares with maple syrup and cut them along the lines with the same superstitious reverence that keeps little kids from stepping on the cracks in the sidewalks. Right now, though, they're both safe and warm and happy and right here, and since that's all that he can really ask for, Dean figures he'll take it, and deal with tomorrow when it comes.


End file.
